


They Don't Know About Us

by stfustucky (iwillpaintasongforlou)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 10 percent hurt 90 percent comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier is one of those little dogs who think they're ferocious, M/M, Minor Injuries, Soft Boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27823981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillpaintasongforlou/pseuds/stfustucky
Summary: “I didn’t pick a fight, by the way,” Jaskier says when Geralt approaches him with the materials, hiding behind his mask of charm once more. “I only finished it.”“Pretty sureIfinished it when I cut his hand off.”“Yes, well, Iwould havefinished it. You just didn’t give me a chance.”__________________________________(Super soft scene of Geralt patching up his feral bard and loving him very much)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 187





	They Don't Know About Us

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Jaskier clutches a hand to the base of his throat like a lady protecting her jewels. “Geralt, you wound me. I’ll have you know that I was top of my class at Oxenfurt! My professors lauded me as a genius.”

“Your professors never saw you with your face busted up because you picked a fight with someone twice your size,” Geralt grumbles.

“Bold of you to assume that I wasn’t as rowdy then as I am now,” retorts Jaskier, dropping one blackening eyelid in a wink that has to be at least a little painful.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier falls silent for a few minutes while Geralt retrieves his human-friendly medical supplies from his bags, which is probably the best indicator of all that he really is hurting. The bard is never quiet, which makes it that much more concerning when he is. Sure enough, when Geralt sneaks a glance across the clearing to where Jaskier is perched on the trunk of a fallen tree, there’s an uncharacteristic sag to his shoulders that speaks to pain or exhaustion or both.

“I didn’t pick a fight, by the way,” Jaskier says when Geralt approaches him with the materials, hiding behind his mask of charm once more. “I only finished it.”

“Pretty sure _I_ finished it when I cut his hand off.”

“Yes, well, I _would have_ finished it. You just didn’t give me a chance.”

Of that, Geralt has no doubt. His bard may not look it, but he isn’t a man to be trifled with. He kneels in the dirt in front of Jaskier and starts wiping some of the blood off his face. “Sure looked like picking a fight to me. I walked in and you were shoving at him and saying some truly disgusting things about his mother.”

“He started it!”

“What’d he do, tell you how ugly your doublet is?” He says it to get a rise out of Jaskier, to distract him from the fact that he’s dabbing alcohol on the cut above Jaskier’s eye, but all he gets is silence. He really, _really_ doesn’t like it when the bard is silent. It’s never a good thing. Once the cut is cleaned, he steps back to take a look at Jaskier’s guilty face. “Jask, out with it.”

Jaskier sighs. “He had certain… opinions, if you could call them that, which offended me. Misconceptions of fact, really. I just set him straight.”

He’d never admit it, but Geralt’s heart sinks at the words. This isn’t the first time in their travels that they’ve come across this, and as much as he hates the thought, he knows that it won’t be the last, either. His hands fiddle with the alcohol-soaked rag he’s still clutching. “Is it… because of us?”

Immediately Jaskier’s face softens, and he reaches up to cup Geralt’s cheek in one scraped-up palm. “No, love. Not about us, though I’m sure given his intellect he probably had some asinine opinions on that, too.”

Geralt leans into the touch a little. “Then what was it?”

There’s another pregnant pause, and then Jaskier sighs again. “He… seemed to think that witchers were mindless beasts who knew nothing but killing. I happen to know otherwise.”

There was a time when Geralt would have argued with him, insisted that the man was more correct than Jaskier realized, and chastised Jaskier for putting himself in harm’s way on his account. That time had long since passed, however, worn away by years of Jaskier’s friendship, and then more years still of his love. He knows better now than to insist on his own monstrosity, and he _certainly_ knows better than to attempt to tell Jaskier what he can and cannot do. This man, he knows, is a force of nature that not even a witcher can overcome.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “I’m going to kiss you.”

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth twitches up in a smile. “My lip is busted.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“There’s blood in my mouth.”

“Not scared of a little blood.”

Jaskier doesn’t seem to have any other protests, so he sits quietly and lets Geralt lean in to leave a kiss, feather-light, on Jaskier’s lip. There’s no heat behind it, not this time, just Geralt’s attempt to show what he can’t find the words to say. He can never find the words to say it.

But Destiny was kind when she made Jaskier cross his path, because he understands anyways. “I love you, too,” he says softly, resting his forehead against Geralt’s. Then, quieter, “Fucking _ouch._ I think that bastard bruised my brain.”

“Good thing you’re just here to look pretty,” Geralt deadpans, and the instantaneous offended splutter Jaskier emits lets him know that it’s all going to be alright. As long as Jaskier’s got fight in him, everything will be alright.

He has to dodge a few playful swats while he bandages Jaskier’s knuckles, but eventually he gets him cleaned and bandaged and has smoothed a poultice over all of his blooming bruises. “Bed,” Jaskier insists with a yawn and an ensuing wince. “I need to get my creative juices flowing so I can write that up into a ballad about how I kicked that guy’s arse all the way to Novigrad.”

Geralt could probably argue with his intent to bend the truth, but he’d rather settle onto his back on the bedroll and let Jaskier curl into his side. He won’t sleep; he never fully relaxes into slumber when he’s out in the open like this, and meditation is more than enough to sustain him. He never passes up an opportunity to have Jaskier close, though. He’s not strong enough to deny himself that.

“Gonna be a good ballad,” Jaskier mumbles into his chest, already half asleep. “Just you wait.”

“Hmm. Goodnight, Jaskier.”

“Goodnight, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Because why would I do real work at work when I could just write soft fic instead amirite or amirite
> 
> stfustucky | tumblr  
> @stfustucky | twitter  
> Charlie Stfustucky#3055 | discord


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